


Whatever works

by Marva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marva/pseuds/Marva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has to accompany Sherlock to a scientific conference because he is afraid of flying. Oh, really?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever works

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themanwiththeplan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themanwiththeplan/gifts).



> This story is dedicated to SolarSystem/themanwiththeplan and was part of the Secret Santa Exchange 2013 of the Sherlock Fan Forum.  
> Thanks to my beta-readers!

1  
Everything started on that very evening in mid November when I came home from a truly nerve wrecking day at the hospital. I climbed up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, anticipating the five days off ahead of me and longing for nothing more than some quiet time in my armchair. But of course my wish was doomed right from the beginning.

When I entered the living-room, I found Sherlock standing in the middle of it, with a suitcase, staring at a pair of plane tickets. “Go on John and pack your luggage” he said without even looking up at me.

“What?” was all I managed to blurt out. He raised his head in bewilderment. “John” he said slowly as if I was mentally disabled “we will be at a professional conference for three days, so you will need your suitcase. The plane will take off in just a few hours.” 

“Sherlock, please!” I sighed. “I just came home from a disastrous day at work; I am looking forward to enjoying my much deserved days off and now you tell me something about a plane and a suitcase I have to pack?”

“Exactly”

“What?”

“That’s exactly what just happened. You are really getting good in observing.”

I sighed again, more heavily this time. “Yes, but what I need now is context. Context, Sherlock! Why would I pack my suitcase? Where is this mysterious plane heading to? What the hell does that all mean?” 

Sherlock’s eyes which stared at me the whole time in a most scary and penetrating manner softened considerably during my speech.

“Right” he nodded, “I didn’t tell you about the conference yet.”

I rolled my eyes.

“The American Academy of Forensic Sciences has invited me as a guest speaker to their next conference” he explained. “It seems that finally someone has recognized the importance of tobacco ash” he added with a smirk.

I breathed deeply. It seemed that, after all, we got closer to the facts. “Fine, alright, a conference. I see. You were invited. Good for you. But what does this have to do with me?”

“Isn’t that obvious, John? You are going with me. I am afraid of flying!”

 

And that’s why, instead of enjoying some trash TV and a few pints of beer, I found myself on a plane soon after. Just that I had to hold hands with Sherlock was something that I did not entirely comprehend.

 

2  
I don’t think I have to explain how uncomfortable I felt, sitting in my Business Class seat next to Sherlock and holding hands with him. A lot of the other passengers were still squeezing their way through the narrow aisle and quite a few of them looked at us, bemused and obviously a little embarrassed too.

“Sherlock, why precisely are we holding hands?”

Sherlock’s forehead was pressed against the little window, he frowned. “I am afraid of flying, John, I already told you.”

“But holding hands will not prevent the plane from crashing” I replied. I can also be smarty-pants, sometimes.

“I think I am going to die, John.”

All of a sudden I felt sorry for that usually very proud and confident man next to me. To show a weakness surely was not easy for him. And his voice was thick of fear; his eyes were wandering around anxiously now as if he was checking that everything was going according to schedule.

“It’s alright, Sherlock” I said appeasing, patting his forearm with my free hand. I also had to confess to myself that I felt somehow flattered: Sherlock Holmes the genius, who usually didn’t even bring himself to shake hands with other people, was soothed by my very presence and more than that by physical contact with me.

So I decided to come to terms with my fate for once and to stand the strange looks we got from our neighbours and even from some of the stewards (homophobic bastards, all of them!).

 

3  
By the time we finally arrived in Atlanta, USA, my whole body was stiff from sitting in the same position because Sherlock didn’t let go of my hand for the entire flight. He spent the whole time digging his fingernails into his seat (and into my hand), Sherlock looked quite exhausted after the flight, so we just jumped into the first cab we could find and shortly after arrived at the hotel he had booked.

You can imagine that at that point I craved for nothing more than a soft, warm bed and some peace and privacy. Well, while my first wish became reality the second one got spoiled by the fact that Sherlock obviously booked only one room. One double room.

“Sherlock, why on earth would you do that?” I exclaimed when I found out, not being able to hide the huff in my voice. Gosh! Nothing, just nothing could ever be easy or “normal” with this man.

But Sherlock was puffed up. “We are friends!”

“Yes, right, Sherlock” Jesus, I was just so tired, and tired of explaining the most basic rules of social behaviour over and over again. “We are friends, but that does not mean we have to sleep in the same room.”

“Or in the same bed” I added indignantly as I just realized that this was exactly what we were going to do. Sleep in the same bed. 

Not that this is happening for the first time. Of course I remember Baskerville and also some other occasions. Sometimes, I think it is better not to over-analyse or over-interpret these things, making it easier to keep consistent with your (hetero) sexual identity. 

Then, what happened was the following: we changed into our pyjamas, laid down in our bed, each of us tidily wrapped in his own blanket on his own side of the bed, of course, and Sherlock grabbed my hand.

I was surprised, to say the least.

Wow.

I mean: why?

No, I mean: why didn’t I already pull my hand away?

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you just do that? Grab my hand?”

“Don’t know. Just felt… good when we did it on the plane.”

“Oh.”

There was silence and I didn’t even know if the situation was awkward or not. I mean, if it is awkward you should also feel awkward, right? But maybe it is also awkward not to feel awkward? Hell, this thought was leading nowhere.

“Problem?”

I cleared my throat.

“Well…no, I guess it is fine.”

That night, although being dead tired, I stayed awake for hours on end, my heart beating in my throat, and my fingertips on Sherlock’s hand prickling with joy.

 

4  
The next day something seemed to have changed. I got up and I felt strong and energized, in spite of everything that had happened the day before and the whole world seemed to be covered with gleam. I remembered the time in Afghanistan when I got a little too much morphine after my bullet wound. The feeling was quite similar. This time, I blamed it on the slight jetlag.

During our breakfast in the dining-hall, Sherlock kept deducing everything and everyone around us. I hung on his lips, because he is brilliant. He really is, isn’t he? Actually, I don’t remember too much of what he said, but I do remember his face, so full of self-confidence, and pride over my admiration. And his smile, he smiled a lot that morning.

We finally arrived at the conference, the destination of the whole trip. We listened to lectures about new developments in forensic sciences and in the breaks Sherlock met lots of people who all seemed to know him already. He introduced me as his partner and for once I didn’t object, despite the ambiguity. I just followed him around, like I always do.

That’s how the days were passing: Sherlock spent the time impressing me and everyone else with his not deniable cleverness and I felt an immature gratification as I was the only one he let to be in his close vicinity. During the nights we were holding hands. It was perfect.

 

5  
On the last day of the conference, Sherlock finally held his long-awaited presentation about his 200-something types of ash. It comes with no surprise that he gloriously fulfilled all expectations and that he was praised to the limit afterwards.

But when we came back to the hotel for our last stay there, he seemed to be not only very pleased, but also a little nervous. I explained that with the approaching flight the next day he would be anxious. With hindsight, I was probably wrong.

I woke up in the night after restless sleep. Sherlock was awake too, he was lying on his side facing me and his eyes fixed on my face. I gazed back, too tired and confused to say anything.

“I want to kiss you,” Sherlock said eventually.

His voice was firm, though scratchy, just a little.

“Sherlock…” I started. My heart was beating like a drumfire. My brain was empty. I awaited the feeling of disgust, anger, or even horror.

“Sherlock, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” He sounded alarmed.

“Because…” I swallowed. “Don’t you understand? We are not gay. At least I’m not. No idea about you. This is just something I can’t do.”

“John” His voice was saturated with sweet tenderness now, letting shivers running down my spine.

“John, I never had the urge to kiss or to be physically close to anybody in the world, except you. I don’t know if that makes me gay or not and I don’t care. It is just a label. All I know right now” he swallowed “is that I want to kiss you, so badly.”

I swallowed too and all of a sudden I realized that the feeling that was growing inside me more and more was not disgust, as I assumed before, but desire. My lips parted as I breathed deeply. I saw Sherlock’s face in front of me; it was closer now than before. I closed my eyes and at the same moment I felt his lips pressing gently on mine. I am quite sure the world stopped turning in that very moment. After we parted, Sherlock beamed at me and whimsically he murmured “You do know, that in fact, I am not afraid of flying, don’t you?” “Oh, shut up” I growled and pulled him back to me. 

And that’s basically where we are now, Sherlock and I. We share the same bed, we share intimacy and we kiss. I can’t think of anything better than hanging around with him, listening to him, seeing his face, being by his side, all the time. I don’t care if you think we are a couple or that he is my boyfriend or even that I am gay. I just don’t think that way. Not anymore. I guess, we just do whatever works.


End file.
